Married to the CEO by Morning

The third shot of cheap tequila burned a violent path down Elenor's throat, forcing hot, physiological tears to the corners of her eyes.

She slammed the empty shot glass onto the sticky surface of the Tribeca bar.

The neon lights overhead buzzed, a harsh, grating sound that matched the pounding in her skull.

The bartender, a guy with too many tattoos and a sympathetic frown, slid a glass of ice water toward her.

"Do you need me to call you an Uber, miss?" he asked, his voice a low rumble beneath the heavy bass of the club music.

Elenor shook her head sharply.

Her vision blurred as she stared down at her phone, which was lying face-up on the counter. The screen lit up again. One Missed Call: Clemens.

Her stomach violently contracted.

Just three hours ago, under the crystal chandeliers of the Vincent family's annual charity gala, Clemens' voice had sliced through her chest like a serrated blade.

"She's just a charity case my family sponsors. Don't take her seriously."

The words echoed in her ears, magnifying until they drowned out the music.

Her lungs forgot how to process oxygen. She closed her eyes tightly, her trembling fingers reaching out to flip the phone face-down against the wood.

She just wanted the noise to stop. She wanted the crushing weight of her own pathetic existence to vanish.

"A neat whiskey. Macallan 25."

The voice came from right beside her. It was low, resonant, and carried an undeniable weight of authority that didn't belong in a dive bar.

Elenor's heavy eyelids fluttered open. She turned her head slowly, her alcohol-laced brain struggling to focus.

A man was sitting on the stool next to her. The dim, flashing neon lights caught the sharp, unforgiving line of his jaw.

He was dressed in a dark, impeccably tailored suit that screamed Upper East Side elite.

Elenor's brain was too numb to recognize the face that frequently graced the covers of financial magazines. She didn't see the youngest billionaire on Wall Street; she only saw a stranger.

The man turned his head. His eyes, dark and bottomless, locked onto her bloodshot ones.

He didn't look away. He held her gaze for three agonizingly long seconds.

Then, he slowly raised his whiskey glass toward her in a silent, restrained, yet incredibly invasive toast.

The unwavering focus in his eyes felt less like interest and more like an assessment, cold and penetrating.

Elenor flinched, her hand jerking backward in sudden panic. Her knuckles clipped the glass of ice water.

The glass tipped, sending freezing water cascading directly onto the lap of her silk dress.

She gasped, the icy shock snapping her out of her stupor. She scrambled for the cheap paper napkins on the bar, frantically dabbing at the ruined fabric.

A hand entered her field of vision.

Long, elegant fingers held out a dark, monogrammed handkerchief. It smelled faintly of cedarwood and cold rain.

Elenor hesitated before taking it. As her fingertips brushed against his cool knuckles, a jolt of static electricity shot up her arm.

She recoiled instantly, but the man didn't pull his hand back.

Instead, he seamlessly shifted his grip, his large hand wrapping around her trembling wrist.

"Are you in some kind of trouble?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in her chest. There was a strange, almost imperceptible undertone of indulgence in his tone.

The combination of the alcohol, the freezing water on her dress, and the utter humiliation of the night finally broke her.

"I'm just a joke," Elenor blurted out, a bitter, broken laugh escaping her lips. "A pathetic, disposable joke."

The man's eyes darkened instantly. The temperature around them seemed to drop.

His thumb moved, slowly and deliberately stroking the erratic pulse at her wrist.

"Let's get you out of here," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips. "Somewhere you can actually breathe."

Elenor stared into those deep, dangerous eyes. The alcohol whispered that she had nothing left to lose.

She nodded, a jerky, thoughtless motion.

They walked out of the bar together. The crisp autumn wind of New York hit Elenor, making her teeth chatter violently.

Without a word, the man stripped off his suit jacket. He draped it over her bare shoulders. The residual heat of his body seeped into her freezing skin.

A black Maybach glided silently to the curb. A driver immediately stepped out and opened the rear door.

Elenor slid into the cavernous, leather-scented backseat. The man followed, and the heavy door clicked shut, sealing them inside.

The soundproof cabin blocked out the city entirely. The air between them instantly became thick and suffocatingly hot.

Elenor turned her head. The dim reading light illuminated the strong column of his neck and the sharp bob of his Adam's apple.

The tequila eradicated her last shred of inhibition.

She leaned forward, her hands gripping his broad shoulders, and crashed her lips against his.

Blinding sunlight pierced through the floor-to-ceiling windows, stabbing directly into Elenor's retinas.

She groaned, a sharp, splitting pain radiating through her temples.

She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes and forced herself into a sitting position.

The mattress beneath her was impossibly soft. She blinked against the light, her vision slowly clearing to reveal a sprawling, ultra-luxury hotel suite.

She looked down. High-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets pooled around her waist.

She wasn't wearing a single piece of clothing.

A cold sweat broke out over her entire body. Fragmented memories slammed into her fragile skull like a freight train.

The bar. The cedarwood scent. The backseat of the Maybach. The desperate, messy kisses.

She sucked in a sharp breath, her lungs seizing. She yanked the heavy duvet up to her chin, her eyes darting wildly around the room.

Red marks dotted her collarbones and shoulders, glaring physical evidence of how far she had crossed the line last night.

The sound of running water suddenly echoed from the master bathroom.

Elenor's heart vaulted into her throat, beating so hard it bruised her ribs.

She threw off the covers and scrambled off the bed, her bare feet slapping against the cold hardwood floor. She needed her clothes.

She found her silk dress discarded near the sofa, but the delicate fabric was torn straight down the side seam. A fragmented memory flashed-her own clumsy, drunken hands aggressively yanking at the stubborn zipper in the dark, the sickening sound of the delicate silk ripping under her desperate grip. It was unwearable.

Panic clawed at her throat. She snatched a crisp, white men's dress shirt draped over the back of a leather armchair and shoved her arms through the sleeves.

The shirt was massive on her. The hem barely brushed the middle of her thighs, and the fabric was saturated with that same intoxicating cedarwood scent.

The water stopped.

The frosted glass door of the bathroom slid open.

Elenor froze, her back hitting the cold edge of the marble wet bar.

The man walked out. He had a white towel slung low around his hips. Droplets of water traced the hard, defined lines of his abdominal muscles, disappearing into the terrycloth.

He didn't look hungover. He didn't look confused.

He lifted his dark eyes and pinned her to the spot. His gaze raked over her, taking in his shirt hanging off her small frame, with a brazen, unapologetic intensity.

"I-I'm so sorry," Elenor stammered, her vocal cords tight. "Last night was... I had too much to drink. It was a mistake."

He didn't say a word. He closed the distance between them with slow, predatory strides.

The physical dominance of his large frame suffocated her. Elenor pressed herself harder against the marble, wishing she could melt into it.

He stopped mere inches from her. He tilted his head slightly, his long fingers reaching up to brush aside a damp strand of dark hair resting on his neck.

Low on the side of his neck, just above his collarbone, was a violent, undeniable red bite mark.

Elenor gasped, her hands flying to cover her mouth.

A vivid flash of memory hit her-her teeth sinking into that exact spot in the back of the car, acting like a wild, feral animal.

Heat exploded in her cheeks. She wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole.

"This mark," his voice was a low, dangerous gravel that vibrated in the quiet room, "is going to make my board meeting today extremely difficult."

"I can go buy concealer," Elenor blurted out, her hands shaking. "I can fix it."

He let out a short, humorless laugh. He turned his back to her, walked behind the bar, and poured himself a cup of black coffee.

He picked up a folded newspaper from the counter and tossed it onto the marble right in front of her.

It was the Financial Times.

The bold headline screamed: PORTER HOLDINGS POISED FOR RECORD-BREAKING IPO.

Beneath the headline was a high-resolution photo of the man standing in front of her.

Elenor's eyes scanned the text, the letters swimming before her eyes.

Christian Porter.

The most ruthless, cold-blooded acquisition machine on Wall Street.

All the blood drained from her face, leaving her lightheaded.

She slowly lifted her head, meeting Christian's eyes. They were completely devoid of warmth, calculating and terrifyingly calm.

Elenor stared at the name printed on the newspaper. Her brain flatlined. Her muscles locked into place, rigid as stone.

Christian took a slow sip of his black coffee. He watched her panic unfold with the detached interest of a predator watching a trapped mouse.

He pulled out a barstool and sat down, crossing one long leg over the other. Elenor felt the air in the room thicken, as if his relaxed posture was a gravitational force, commanding every square inch of space around him.

"I swear, it was an accident," Elenor whispered, her voice cracking. "I won't bother you. I'll leave right now, and no one will ever know."

"Wall Street doesn't believe in accidents," Christian interrupted, his tone devoid of emotion. "It only looks at results."

He picked up a remote from the counter and pressed a button.

The massive flat-screen TV mounted on the wall flickered to life, tuned to a major financial news network.

The anchor was currently dissecting the volatility risks surrounding the upcoming Porter Holdings IPO.

"Any negative scandal right now," Christian said, pointing a long finger at the screen, "will evaporate hundreds of millions in market cap before the opening bell."

"But no one knows about last night!" Elenor pleaded, her fingernails digging painfully into her own palms. "Just let me go."

Christian reached into his pocket and slid his phone across the marble counter toward her.

Elenor looked down.

The screen displayed a series of grainy, paparazzi-style photos. It showed the two of them outside the bar, locked in a heavy embrace, and then getting into the Maybach.

Her face was partially obscured by his jacket, but Christian's sharp profile was unmistakable.

Elenor clamped a hand over her mouth, a wave of nausea hitting her. "How... how were there photographers?"

"My competitors pay very good money to watch my every move," Christian stated coldly. "If these photos reach the tabloids, the narrative is out of my control."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter. "The board of directors demands a CEO with absolute stability and rigorous self-control."

He tapped the red bite mark on his neck. "This, combined with those photos, proves I lack both."

The crushing weight of responsibility slammed into Elenor's chest. Her breathing turned shallow and rapid.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked, her voice trembling. "I don't have money. I can't compensate you for this."

Christian set his coffee mug down. He stood up and walked around the counter, stopping right in front of her.

He reached out. His rough thumb brushed against the corner of her eye, wiping away a tear that had threatened to spill.

The unexpected gentleness of the gesture sent a violent shiver down her spine.

"I don't need your money," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "I need a permanent solution to this PR crisis."

Elenor tilted her head up, desperate for a way out. "What solution?"

Christian turned on his heel and walked over to the heavy oak desk near the window. He opened a drawer and pulled out a thick stack of legal documents.

He walked back and slammed the file down onto the marble counter. The heavy thud made Elenor jump.

Her eyes dropped to the bold, capitalized words on the first page.

PRENUPTIAL AGREEMENT - STATE OF NEW YORK.

Elenor blinked rapidly, convinced the alcohol was still messing with her brain. She read the words again.

Christian planted both hands flat on the marble, caging her in. His dark eyes locked onto hers with terrifying intensity.

He spoke in the most sterile, business-like tone imaginable.

"You are going to marry me. We will use a legal union to turn a catastrophic scandal into a corporate fairy tale."